


satellite's gone up to the skies

by philthestone



Series: you and me and this joy of ours [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But can be read as stand alone, F/M, Gen, companion piece to 'you and me and this joy of ours', kind of? its set at an ambiguous point in the future so really its up to u
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24209905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: If she were in an introspective mood just now, she’d puzzle it out, but she isn’t; she’s dressed for bed and scrolling through the team’s work datapad, idly looking for a job they could take to tide them over to the next solar cycle and humming a Lou Reed song very quietly.The little body wedged against her leg over the big bed’s comforter wriggles, turning towards her.“You smell nice, Mama.”
Relationships: Gamora and a baby actually .... yes im back and yes u all know me, Gamora/Peter Quill
Series: you and me and this joy of ours [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753363
Comments: 20
Kudos: 53





	satellite's gone up to the skies

**Author's Note:**

> im still alive and writing starmora it seems!!! they always sooth my heart tbh
> 
> for a prompt by the inimitable wonderful beloved zainab, or @CrimsonPetrichor here on ao3. technically it fits in the same universe as "you and me and this joy of ours" and "i believe in you and in our hearts", so if you want to see more of meredith check those out, but it can definitely exist as a standalone.
> 
> title is from lou reed and reviews are truly the light of the angels

The _Benatar’s_ always had a peculiar thrum to it, in the hours of the time cycle where everyone’s retired to their own bunks. Gamora has long since acclimated to this thrum, found comfort in it even. There’s a serenity that comes with the mechanical vibrancy that is the ship’s beating heart that she finds grounding. In the early days, on the _Milano_ , it was a novelty -- a ship big enough to move around in but small enough that she could feel its innards working to keep them moving, keep them going. Now, it’s something else.

Gratefulness, Gamora thinks -- that’s what she feels. 

Maybe it has something to do with her own body being part machine. She’s not sure. If she were in an introspective mood just now, she’d puzzle it out, but she isn’t; she’s dressed for bed and scrolling through the team’s work datapad, idly looking for a job they could take to tide them over to the next solar cycle and humming a Lou Reed song very quietly.

The little body wedged against her leg over the big bed’s comforter wriggles, turning towards her. 

“You smell nice, Mama.”

Meredith’s curly head rests just under the pillow it’s supposed to be supported by, soft cheek squished into the bedding. She’s grinning in that sweet, guileless way of hers, so Peter-esque in its flavour that Gamora can never look at it and not smile.

She lets the grin pull itself into an exaggerated, goofy face that a younger her would never have thought possible, narrows one eye down at her daughter, and pretends to think about this.

“I smell nice, huh?”

“Uh huh,” says Meredith, nodding, resolute despite her horizontal position and the awkward angle at which she’s looking up at her mother. “Not like Daddy. He’s stinky right now.”

It’s very matter of fact. Gamora props the datapad against her bare knees and peers over Meredith’s little body to where Peter is passed out over the covers, one heavy arm slung above the pillow that Meredith has abandoned, almost there as a subconscious bracket against the hardness of the cabin wall behind them. His other half is at risk of slipping off the bed -- courtesy of the six year old between them insisting that she keep them company instead of sleeping in her own, perfectly usable bunk just two steps away -- and something about these two things together makes a part of Gamora’s chest tighten and loosen in a way she’s coming to suspect might be an embedded instinct older than time itself. 

She didn’t used to think something like that could exist, outside of pure, mechanical survival.

She leans down a little, the bedtime braid of her hair shifting against her back, one hand coming forward to smooth Meredith’s purple curls away from her forehead.

“Let’s go easy on him. Daddy had a busy day.” Which is not strictly true -- most of it was over within a few short, hectic hours -- but Gamora has yet to find them a job that does not suddenly and abruptly go belly-up or ridiculous at the drop of a hat. 

This is, of course, Peter’s metaphor, and not her own.

They had come out unscathed but more or less exhausted, is the point. And while Gamora had had the opportunity to shower and decompress a bit before corralling Meredith into her sleeping things with Mantis’s help, Peter had stayed in the kitchen with Rocket, to deal with an unexplainably still-ticking bomb, and then the cockpit to do the follow-up call with Dey afterwards.

By the time he’d shuffled into the captain’s cabin, he’d barely been awake enough to change out of his dirty coat and boots before passing out face-down.

“He forgot to take a bath,” Meredith says now, matching her conspiratorial whisper. “But that’s okay. We still love him.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Gamora agrees. It is a herculean effort to not burst into unreasonable, heart-swelling giggles -- at their daughter’s frankness and the absurd mundanity of the situation and the fact that, indeed, their bedroom _has_ seen better-smelling days. She bites down on the inside of her cheek, and runs her thumb over Meredith’s hairline, and steadies her pad against her knees. The bedding is soft under her toes, as Meredith’s curls are under her fingers. “Sleep time now, okay?”

“Okay, Mama.” 

Gamora stays awake, listening for the soft evening-out of Meredith’s breathing as it slowly matches Peter’s in its length and cadence. The ship thrums with its mechanical life around them, dynamic in the quietude of the night cycle. 


End file.
